Heartless Requiem
by Daemon faerie queen
Summary: Between Dead Man's Chest and Curse of the Black Pearl, spoilers. A girl is stranded on The Flying Dutchman alive. Hopefully a rather unexpected tale...
1. Spoils

_This is a story about falling into the sea._

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I don't remember the shipwreck so far as to say my world turned upside-down from where I sat in that leaking cabin and a slab of rotting timber swung about to black out my memory of the event.

Whilst the Spanish trading vessel I had stowed upon crumpled into the ocean's depths, I had somehow been carried almost safely to that place that haunts my waking dreams. One that I'm not even certain you'd believe exists. I will tell of how I came to be there and the strange events that came to pass, but it would make sense to begin where it really began.

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Sodden and freezing, I woke up slumped against the splintering, barnacled hull of a ship's belly. And a monster was staring at me.

I wish I knew how I'd had the energy to scream. I'd never believed or imagined such creatures existed. Black, onyx eyes set in a face as craggy as a reef; spiny rivets along its cheeks, with seaweed veins and membrane-webbed ears.

At the sound of my stirring, it had hissed and shown teeth like mussel shells. At my scream, it hollered in my own language into the gloom.

"It'ss here!"

I heard the scraping and squelching of others gathering towards me, each creature's flesh similar in texture but every one different. Some I swore had limpets, live ones, clamped or crawling on their arms. There were species of plant life _growing _on some of them.

"What is it?" one of them gurgled. "It doesn't look like a proper man."

A large beast with a shell for a nose boomed, "It is not a man. Can you not even remember a part of your old weakness? _That _is a female human; a _woman_."

At this word, a number of them gasped in horror and began whispering furiously. I did not know, then, that these were not monsters at all, but had once been men, many of them sailors. They had forgotten humanity, they had forgotten civilization, but they had not forgotten superstition.

"Throw it overboard!" one of them squeaked.

I felt a slimy hand tug at my arm.

"No!" roared another. "Make it work for us! Trade it for a few less years!"

The waterlogged folds of my dress almost tore as I was wrenched by yet more gnarled fingers. I whimpered as their sharp scales scraped the skin of my ankles, pleading for the nightmare to end.

The debate only lasted a few more moments.

An echoing _clunk _struck the boards in the darkness and sent a chill through every soul below deck.

"Captain," they muttered.

The mob withdrew and the _clunk _sounded again, and again, like the ominous din of the cog teeth in a gargantuan clock. The monster crowd hushed as their assumed master approached and cast his unearthly shadow over me.

Hardly daring to look up, I managed to tilt my head to see what they shrank from. All words dried up in my throat.

The Captain fixed me with a poisonously adamant stare and his low voice rumbled like the last level of the sea itself.

"_Hwhat are yew dewing on mai shep?" _

At first the dialect was alien to me, harsh and warped, but it did not take long for me to adjust to it – a northern tongue from my homeland.

I couldn't answer, choking through fear and the granules of salt clogging my lungs. My silence seemed to fuel his anger. This chief…creature…shot forward, as close to me as inches, showing me the full horror of what he was.

A curling, writhing mass of tentacles served as hair and beard around his face. Though he looked more like a man than some of the crusting crew, his nose and mouth were cemented into the smooth beak of an octopus. He looked almost comical under his leather tricorne, but the steely glare of his eerily human eyes would not let me laugh.

"_Are ye deaf as well as foolish?_" he barked. "_Hwhat purrpose have yew here?"_

"Don't kn-now," I stammered at last.

"_Yew daunt know?_" he repeated softly. He straightened up and smiled terribly, then burst out into a tumult of laughter. The crew joined in as though it were a duty, but jumped with fright as soon as he had ceased.

"_She doesn't know why she is here,_" the Captain shouted with amusement in the ensuing quietude. "_Hwhich means…someone brrought her…_"

He spun around to face the crewmen. They cowered back as his darting glances struck through them.

"_Where is Turrner?_" the Captain demanded.

It was in those few minutes I noticed the further mutations of this awful tyrant. It had taken little guesswork to know that the Captain was missing his right leg from the knee downwards, for instead was a dark peg of hard wood. What disturbed and shocked me the most was not the great crab claw of his left arm, nor the slimy suckered limb of his right. My stomach revolved at the sight of the vile, pulsing sac that was the back of the Captain's head.

I swallowed my revulsion as amongst the squabbling sea monsters, a man was dragged into view and thrown before their master. I stifled a gasp.

This wretched thing still looked for all the world like a human. His pallor was theirs and a fat starfish had planted itself on his middle-aged face, but he was clearly a man.

"_Turner_," the Captain growled at the trembling crewman. "_Hwhat have I told yew about rescuing the damned?_"

"Forgive me, Captain," the man answered hoarsely. "But she's only young. It's not right that she should die so."

"_What makes yew think yew have the rright to judge who the sea should claim? If her ship fell foul of the waters, so she falls foul with me!_"

The vast pincers of the Captain's claw flew out and clamped around my neck like a vice. It took all of my strength to keep on tiptoes as I was thrust forward before old Turner.

"No!" he cried.

"_This girl should not be alive_," the Captain snarled. "_It serves that spilling her blood will appease the laws unwritten_."

The other crewmembers gargled loud approval.

"No, please!" Turner begged. "I will bet for her!"

Again, silence.

I felt myself lowered and the pressure on my throat loosened. Too dazed to consider escape, I watched numbly as the scene unfolded.

"_Yew say you will _bet _for her?_" the Captain asked, his tone purring out more evenly. He made a sniggering laugh. "_Young she _is_, Turrner_, _and too young I'd say for a man of your years. What could yew possibly want with a curséd thing like this?_"

The pincers squeezed suddenly, making me cough. Turner tried to argue more urgently but the Captain spoke again.

"_Ai see how it is. Yew do not want her for yourself, but she reminds yew of your wee offspring, is that not right?_" He smiled at his aghast crewman. "_The ocean holds no secrets from me, Turner_."

The Captain released me and addressed the man who would bargain for my life.

"_Your challenge is accepted_."


	2. Stranded

Perhaps it was the small promise of hope that help would come, even in the form of a cheerless stranger, that kept me from trying to run away. I was too tired and cold to get far, and a part of me worried for this poor man as I watched the haggard crew set up a table and benches in the centre of the ship's hold.

A wooden board was brought in and laid across the table. Two upturned cups were placed on the board along with four dice each side. The Captain and the one they called Turner sat at opposite ends.

I bit my lip as they scooped up their dice with their cups, their movements slow and tense.

"_What'll it be, Turner?_" the Captain asked. I seemed to have gotten used to his accent. "_What is your wager for this girl's life?_"

Old Turner swept a bitter glance over me before responding in his husky voice, "Thirty years."

The Captain snorted.

"_Thirty years? This is worth nothing compared to the prrice yew ask!_"

"The span of her average life then," Turner hurried. "Eighty-five."

The Captain half-closed one of his eyes in scrutiny.

"_And what do yew want in exchange?_"

"A promise that no harm will come to her aboard this ship. That you will not kill her."

For several excruciating seconds they stared each other out. Then the Captain shrugged.

"_Done_," he said.

The two players shook their cups and slammed them onto the board, keeping their dice firmly hidden. Then, they both lifted the edge of their cups nearest to them to see what they had underneath.

"_Three fours_," the Captain hissed.

"Four fives."

_Tap, tap_ – the Captain's crab claw rapped in annoyance on the side of the board.

"_Five fives_," he said at last, the trace of a smirk appearing on his slimy, grey face.

Turner's knuckles whitened as he kept his grip on his cup, trying to plan out his next and final call.

"Five sixes."

"_Liar!_" the Captain roared.

He struck out with his claw and tipped Turner's cup to see what was underneath. The gathered crewmembers gasped.

All four of Turner's dice were sixes.

Everyone looked to the Captain. It was his turn to show what he had landed. Scathingly, he tore the cup away.

A one, two threes, and the last a six – the one Turner had prayed upon.

The Captain shook with anger at his loss. The crew, except Turner, edged away. But their leader's temper waned. He rose from his seat and limped towards me.

"No -," I tried to say, but he ignored me and hauled me to my feet with his slippery, ugly right hand. I felt the rounded suckers clamp my shoulder.

"_Well played, Turner. The girl is yours to pet and to care for, though I dread to think what you'd plan on feeding her. She stays alive while she is aboard, and I_ _will not kill her_," he growled, holding me out like a strip of cured meat.

Before the most human crewmember could deliver me, the great ogre had spun me around to face him.

"_But_," he said to Turner, his eyes wild with a maddened delight. "_I only promised her life as long as she remains here._" His claw snatched my arm and crushed until I yelped and opened out my palm. The suckered hand slammed over my spanned fingers and coated it in a filthy oil.

Burning pain seared through my palm.

Finally the Captain released me and threw me at Turner's feet.

"_There are other ways of dying besides by my hand. Should she set foot off this ship, her life is forfeit._"

He stalked off, and the mob dispersed, leaving me alone with the monster slave that had saved me.

I brought myself to look at my slime-covered hand. In the centre was a thick, black circle.

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When at last I looked up, Turner had moved and brought me a tattered empty sack for a blanket. I accepted it, though he waited awkwardly as if needing the comfort of a reply.

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded and made as though to leave but I grabbed his hand.

"I mean for what you did in that game. I don't know what you were trading for me but thank you."

Turner dragged over a storage crate and sat down.

"It's nothing much. All I have to trade are years of service on this ship. If I'd lost the bet, what's eighty odd more?"

My eyes widened. I was shivering, ice-cold droplets sliding down the strands of my hair.

"Eighty years? Wouldn't you…die?"

He shook his head.

"We can't die whilst we crew the Dutchman. The contract surpasses death."

The name of the ship struck a familiar chord.

"The Dutchman? The _Flying _Dutchman? I thought it was only a story made up to frighten children," I said in disbelief. "What about your Captain? Who is he? _What _is he?"

Old Turner lowered his gaze and his voice as though the subject were forbidden.

"He was a man once, so they say. The reason the sea is named Davy Jones. He likes to believe he is the sea itself, not that anyone would doubt it. He can't tread land but once a decade, he's cold and heartless – more than figuratively. He preys upon the damned crews of stranded ships. The closest thing to a god of the sea one might find in this world."

"Does he sparkle when the moonlight shines on him?" I joked dryly.

Turner half-chuckled.

"What's your name, miss?"

"Millie," I answered. "Millie Redgrain."

"Then the crew will know you as Redgrain. Turner you already know me as but my friends called me Bill or Bootstrap."

"Bootstrap?" I laughed. "I like that. Sounds like…like a _good _pirate."

Bootstrap managed a smile.

"Ah yes, I'd forgotten the fascination over pirates that grips so many young women."

I looked indignant.

"I suppose there's a feeling of adventure about that life, but any sensible person knows that most of them are nasty, violent raiders. Like these…people." I paused, then wondered, "Or were there many decents where you came from before here?"

"I've known a few," said Bootstrap.

Before I could ask any more questions, he pointed out what looked like a door with a wheel-lock at the back of the hold.

"You should get some rest. There's a room through there where you can sleep, it's watertight. It can be opened from the inside as well. Just a precaution, in case the ship dives. We often keep weapons and other supplies in there to protect 'em."

He shooed me over to the room and shut me in with the darkness.

What did he mean _if the ship dives_?

My mind brimming with anxious thoughts, it was a good while before I curled up on a pile of rags and sack cloths and drifted off to sleep.


	3. Tales Aplenty

A/N: Thankee for the reviews!

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I panicked when I woke up in that dark room. For those few moments I'd forgotten where I was; how I'd gotten there. Was I still on the Spanish ship? Had the monsters been a dream? They must have been…they were impossible! Yet so real.

The Spaniards had docked in my hometown, Falmouth. I was passing the harbour on my way to the market, for my parents had wanted some fresh meat and loaves for our supper. It happened that I overheard one of the Spanish sailors talking in broken English to one of our locals. He said that they were heading for Port Royal out in the Caribbean.

Now, to most passers-by this information would have been no more than a little curious, but for me it was the answer to a promise I'd made long ago.

My elder sister, Jessie, was whisked away in an unwanted marriage two years ago. An arrogant nobleman who charmed my parents but fooled neither Jessie nor I, and he dragged her across the seas from me, to live at that very place – Port Royal. I had vowed, however childishly, that I would find a way to get to her and bring her home.

And I saw my chance.

I ditched my basket and slipped past the crewmembers that busied themselves loading the ship with supplies. It wasn't until halfway through the journey that I was discovered helping myself to their apple barrel.

Fortunately, they did not get ill-tempered, nor did they seek to take advantage of me. They even provided me with a spare cabin to sleep in, which is where I was when the ship was…when I thought…

What _did _happen?

I groped around in the black until my fingers touched the cold metal wheel that would open the door. I wrenched it around and the great hatch swung open.

It wasn't a dream…

There was no one around so I hid myself amongst some of the storage crates, and waited.

It was probably a few hours before anyone came down to the hold again, by which time I was thoroughly fed up with counting the grain-lines in the support beams.

"Millie?" a voice called.

It was Bootstrap.

I poked my head out from behind the crates.

"Ah, there you are," he said, somewhat weakly. "Was worried one of the others had sought you out."

He hobbled towards me. I saw a thin blue cut across his face. He was bleeding, bleeding brine.

"What happened?" I gasped, hurrying out of my hiding place to see him more closely. "Why have they done this?"

Bootstrap gave another of his gentle smiles, unused to another's concern.

"I may have won the bet but I still had to be punished for breaking the rules."

"That's barbaric," I exclaimed.

"Aye," he said, as though it could not be any other way.

There was an awkward silence in which I couldn't help but glance at the slow trickle from the wound on his face.

"You don't bleed blood," I blurted.

"No." he answered. "We are not as like other men. Sounds obvious, but the truth of it is, the longer we stay aboard this ship under the contract, the more we become a part of it. As crusted and warped as its barnacle-ridden timbers."

I shuddered at the thought of a person _becoming _this ship. It groaned of pain and torment, it oozed and creaked, stiff and haunted.

"How did someone like you end up here? Why would you sell yourself to this life?" I asked of Bootstrap.

His expression saddened.

"I had little choice. About eight years back, I was involved with a particularly bad lot of fellow pirates. They mutinied against our captain, one of the good ones he was, and marooned him before setting out for a share in an ancient treasure trove. As it turned out, the treasure was cursed. It made us immortal, but we appeared as hideous corpses beneath the moon. I decided to tell the new captain exactly what I thought of his uprising, and for that I was thrown overboard, strapped to a cannon."

He stopped briefly when I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror.

"I couldn't drown. Nothing could kill me, but I did feel pain. Unbearable, endless pain at the bottom of the ocean where the pressure crushed in on me. I had little to lose by offering myself into slavery. It was merely trading one curse for another."

I couldn't help my eyes from turning glassy. This was a _good _man, and he deserved none of the terrors he was going through. When his hundred years of servitude were over, what then? Could he carry on from where he left off, or would he decay and die?

I took my hand away from my face and once again saw the big, round spot on my palm.

"You're wanting to know what that is, aren't you?" said Bootstrap, with an air of regret.

I frowned.

"It's…the Black Spot, isn't it? A symbol amongst pirates. I always thought they were drawn on pieces of paper, like death warrants for – no offence – mostly illiterate people."

Bootstrap nodded.

"Aye, but this is where it all came from. It's a mark, a terrible one, and you must never leave the Dutchman while we're at sea."

"What will happen?"

"I'd rather not say."

I didn't ask further. I had awful visions about my body exploding or disintegrating were I to leap from the deck into the waters.

Inappropriately, my stomach chose this point to growl loudly.

"I'm afraid we don't have much in the way of food here," Bootstrap said, as I looked at my feet in embarrassment. "We mainly eat out of habit and it's usually raw fish and seaweed."

I pulled a face, though I believed there would come a time when I'd be starved enough to eat almost anything.

"There might be an old copper stove at the back though," Bill added. "Never been used in my time here but I've heard tales of Jones keeping prisoners, taking efforts to keep them alive…the sort of things I shouldn't be speaking of with you in your situation. If you can find a tinderbox about, it would be a start."

Luckily our searching did produce these items, and Bootstrap brought me a couple of small fish from the crew's stocks and also a few strange whelk-like things. They weren't the most appetising of foods to look at, but they stilled my hunger after they had been cooked.

I thanked him again as we sat by the glow of the small stove, a bizarre orchestra playing from the dripping of the ship, the crackling of the flames and my crunching.

I had just finished when a growling voice shouted from the steps up to the deck.

"Turner, get yore backside up 'ere. It's yore turn at the helm."

Bootstrap sighed.

"Looks like I'd better be going again," he whispered to me. "It'll probably be a long shift so I'd advise you stay out of sight. Shut yourself back in that room if you want to." He rose slowly and looked back once again to smile at me, though a little forlorn, as if seeing my youth gave him pangs of nostalgia. "I'll try and find some better eating before the morning."

I nodded gratefully and waited until he had left, then I made my way back to the watertight room. Having shut the door behind me I let the shadows fold me into sleep, and I felt like one great, human-sized, black spot.


	4. First impressions

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the reviews. With regards to the bet and her 'average span' being eighty odd years, I kinda couldn't be bothered to look up the average span for the 1600s etc and also believed that Jones might have a sort of extra sense for how long individual people might live. So she's gonna be a lucky one if she survives lol.

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The next morning's awakening was a lot more unpleasant than the first. My eyes snapped open to the sound of items in the hold being thrown aside; crates grumbling across the floor; something metal rolling.

I turned the wheel of my enclosure as slowly as I could but still made a hideous jarring noise. Through the opening I saw one of the more savage-looking crewmen, clearly in a foul mood. It heard the door open and snarled at me.

"On whose authority do you think you can steal our food and use our sundries?"

It raced towards me, teeth bared.

I squeaked and went to close myself back inside but he was too fast. He shoved the hatch-door aside and hauled me out of the room. Growling inches from my face, he shoved me across the hold so that I landed beside what I found to be the stove, upturned.

"Aren't shellfish good enough for a sophisticated harlot like you?" he said, advancing on me.

"B-Bootstrap s-said you all preferred raw food -," I managed.

"Bootstrap? We're on first name terms with old Turner now, are we?" the monster sneered. "There's something you should learn, wench. Turner ain't in charge on this ship!"

"Neither are you!" I blurted stupidly.

The scaly brute lashed out and struck me to the floor. I shielded my face as he rained wild blows on me. Driven crazed with fear, I kicked back, cuffing him in the jaw with my shoe.

He roared, more with rage than pain.

"You shouldn't be able to hurt me!" I yelled. "The deal! If I'm harmed, nothing will keep me here on this ship."

He leapt at me and pinned me to the boards, close to spitting as he snarled, "No one specified how much constitutes as harm. It happens that the Captain doesn't think someone's damaged 'less they lose bits or stop breathing."

I don't know what possessed me and I severely regretted it, but I bit him. Right on his grotesque, spiky wrist. It felt like trying to chomp a pinecone made of lead. It did what I intended, however. He screamed.

What followed was a pitiless fight, a blur of his clawed fingers tearing at me as I punched and kicked and bowled about to escape him. After what seemed like an hour but must have only been a matter of minutes, a familiar hoarse voice resounded across the hold.

"Leave her alone!"

The beast stopped tussling with me and looked up, scales bristling.

"Come to save your girl, Turner?" he hissed.

Bootstrap approached slowly but his expression was stern.

"Don't push me, Bo'sun. It only takes two words to get the Captain's attention. Don't make me call Jones."

The Boatswain, for that was who crouched above me, peeled his dragonish lips back snidely. He did not answer though. He gave a disgruntled snort before he released me and stalked off for the stairs.

I suppose I'd gotten off lightly. My skin was only broken in one place – a short stripe along my right shoulder beneath the torn sleeve. As for my dress, the skirts were frayed so badly that all the material below my knees were thin, ragged strips.

"I shouldn't have left you alone," Bootstrap said, but he was not angry with me. His tone was more scolding of himself. "Next time you can come up on deck with me. Weather might not be pretty, but at least I'll know where you are."

I nodded dumbly. Annoyingly, my lip was quivering. The shock of the attack was wreaking its tearful aftermath.

"Here now," old Turner hushed. "It's all right. Ye're okay."

He came around the pile of rubble I was crouching amongst and reached down to pat me fondly. He saw the state of my dress.

"We'll need to do something about your clothes," he said grimly. "For the younger and more foolish crewmen, it's bad enough you being the gender you are, which ain't the fault of yours."

I wiped my eyes guiltily.

"What do you suggest?" I asked.

Bootstrap sighed.

"Well, there be no extra clothes on board, let alone for a young woman. There's only one thing that can be done. I'll have to go plead with the Captain to draw near land so I can fetch you some."

If his skin weren't already sea green, I would swear it would have turned the same colour.

"You've done more than enough for me," I said. "I…I'll go."

His eyes widened, which was quite a feat when his eyelids seemed always drooped with exhaustion.

"No, I couldn't let y-," he started but I shook my head.

He didn't argue much more, but thanked me. Bootstrap allowed me a few moments to gather my wits. This was not all I gathered. I pulled forward the least damaged folds of my skirts and held them in front of me to hide as much of me as I could.

I insisted I was ready and Turner led me up the stairs to the deck of the _Dutchman_.

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I don't think even a week of consideration would have prepared me for the sight under the sky. The _Dutchman_'s decks and sails were of such similar hues to the crew that the two were almost inseparable. The crew were a part of the ship and the ship was a monster like them.

Everywhere I looked, the fiends were swarming about, tending to the stay-ropes or needlessly adjusting the positions of barrels and crates. I would learn during my stay that a lot of unnecessary jobs occurred aboard the _Dutchman_. I suppose it kept them sane.

Bootstrap shielded me as we headed for the aft of the ship. I felt a lot like a child in the way he tended to treat me but it was oddly comforting and I think I would have preferred it to trying to fend for myself.

Forgive me, I have not yet given you the age I was at that time. I was nineteen, but my lack of worldly experience made me near infantile in my behaviour.

With the sneers and growls of the working crew behind us, we reached an area where three large steps led down to a closed, fortified set of double doors. Bootstrap stayed at the head of the stairs.

"I'll wait up here on deck for when you come out," he said then added, "Good luck."

I nodded and he wandered out of sight. I licked and bit my lip nervously, and then I turned one of the handles. Taking care to be quiet so as not to disturb what lay beyond, I slipped inside.

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The cabin was almost majestic, but for the lichen tint to every wall and possession. The room appeared to have slept on the ocean floor for centuries. There were antiquated tables and creaking candleholders, seafaring equipments and curled scrolls, but none of these drew my gaze like the spectacle of the great organ set in the back.

I'd only ever dreamt what they looked like, for few churches where I lived could afford such luxuries. I drew closer and saw that it was the likeness of a vast gaping mouth, with each row of keys a set of morbid teeth. On one of its flat ledges perched a once silver angel figure, standing over a heart-shaped box.

Unable to contain my curiosity, I reached towards the box. Before my fingers could close upon its lid, something bulled out of the recesses of the room and snatched my arm. The tough crab claw wrenched me about to look once more into the face of Davy Jones.

"_Ai see yew have found your feet along with a nose to poke into other people's prrivacy_," he growled.

When I didn't answer, he released me and took a step back. In my surprise I had ceased to hold the ragged ends of my dress. My dishevelled appearance did not go unnoticed.

"_Yew, girl, are improperrly drressed_," Jones hissed.

"That's why I came," I said, finding nerves at last. I took in a deep breath before blurting, "I wanted to ask if we could draw nearer land so I may better clothe myself."

He snorted.

"_And hwho would ye have go ashore? I_ _cannot tread land and yew lose the right to live once ye step off my ship._"

"Bootstrap would go," I answered. I hoped not to place blame on him, but it seemed my only method of persuasion.

"_Yew would upset the working balance of my crew for the matter of your own honour? I think yew underestimate the selfishness of your demands_."

I flushed.

"Bootstrap, I mean, Mr Turner said that my being dressed like this would lead to distraction. He thinks it would be for the best…"

"_Does he now? And I suppose he helped yew concoct this little scheme to have your way and your eventual escape?_" His claw pinched my dress at the stomach, narrowly avoiding the skin. _"To make yourself up dressed like a whore warrants treating like a whore_."

He snarled and shoved me to the floor. My elbows stung as they grazed on wood, my sleeves poor cushions.

"I didn't do this!" I shrieked angrily as he stomped for the doors. "One of your foul crew attacked me!"

There was a dangerous pause in which Jones halted and turned slowly to look upon me.

"_Did yew just dare to speak?_"

I glared at him from the floor, my eyes wild, heart racing. He moved back toward me, the replacement of his right leg driving mercilessly into the boards. He leaned down so that we were face to face, his tentacles coiling with rage.

"_Yew are a hair's breadth from being forced to work alongside my crew in your present state, with no orders to protect ye from what might befall._"

Jones lifted me to my feet. Then he shot out and hooked his claw through the gap between my bodice and chest. He lingered long enough to tell me that one snip could reduce me to petticoats – or worse.

"_Do ye doubt my generosity_?"

"No," I gasped.

He dropped his hold, and I fled from the cabin.


	5. The Echo

**A/N:** Thank you again for your reviews. A bit more light-hearted a chapter this time, and I've made efforts to improve some stuff. I'm not used to writing in first person though so apologies for its poor quality.

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Bootstrap got lashes that night for my inability to keep my mouth shut. I flinched at the sound of the whip from below deck where my numbed fingers were busy tying a piece of sackcloth around my legs. The spread of the material was such that I knew I would waddle no better than a goose, but it would have to do.

I waited a long time for him to come down, but he did not. I confined myself back to my comfortless room and forced myself to sleep again.

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The sound that roused me made me think I was dreaming. Beyond the thick plug of my room's door, someone was singing. It was a gruff voice, but not like Mr Turner's. Whatever the song was, it had a sad tune but its singer seemed to be making it almost merry.

I pressed my ear against the hatch.

"…listen to the ocean waves for Davy Jones's lullaby,

though his heart beats in foreign lands

still never does he die…"

Thinking it to be one of the crew, I remained quiet for a bit longer. The song repeated in a jolly hum before starting again with slightly altered lyrics.

"Salute, ye sea-dogs far and wide, for ol' Fishface's lullaby…dum de dum de…somethi-ing else…and then spit in his eye…"

Utterly baffled, I dared to open the door for a glimpse of this mutinous daredevil. Oddly, when I'd swung open the hatch aside, the singing stopped. I couldn't see anyone in the hold, though the ship's lamps gave off little light anyway.

Frowning, I stepped out of my room and closed the door.

There was a man standing behind it.

I managed to prevent myself from screaming. He, however, didn't.

Fearing that the crew or the captain might rush down at any moment after this racket, I stammered, "Pirate!"

"Where?" The bizarre man held his hat in place as he looked behind him.

He looked back at me and calmed down. "Oh, I see. You mean me."

Now, I described this man as 'bizarre'. It might have been more appropriate to say he looked like something you would find at a _bazaar_. His clothing, beneath a calico coat, was as mismatched and rogue-sailorish as they came, but his hair…it was like an arts and crafts stall. Thick black dreadlocks with strange trinkets threaded here and there, poking haphazardly out of a fading red bandanna. His beard consisted of two little beaded braids hanging off his chin, and a tiny tuft below his bottom lip. Not forgetting the moustache, which was the tidiest thing on all his person.

"What do you want?" I asked warily.

The pirate's eyes – ringed thickly with charcoal – were darting all over the place, narrowing and widening as he listened to his surroundings and studied the hold. A minute later, he finally got around to the fact I had spoken to him. His gaze settled on me, a little too much of me I might add.

He smirked.

"What is there on offer, love?"

I stepped back. He grinned at me, revealing a set of teeth that had a selection of silver caps. The teeth that remained though were in surprisingly good condition for a man of his profession.

"No worries, missy," he said. "I'm not 'ere to hurt ya."

He reached out and patted my shoulder. At least, that's what he intended to do, but somehow his fingers slipped right through me.

The pirate gawped at his hand as if it had turned purple.

"You're a ghost!" I gasped.

"Am not," the 'spirit' said indignantly.

"Pick up that crate," I suggested, pointing out one of the lighter boxes.

He grumbled and offered me a bottle that he was carrying.

"Hold this then."

I tried to grasp it but the bottle fell through my waiting hands and shattered on the floor. The man went through a series of different expressions and colours in his aghast face.

"Agh!" he cried. "Rum! It – you – rum – dropped!"

I hissed at him to be quiet, terrified of any moment hearing the 'thunk' of Jones's approach. The seething, wounded man went to pick up the crate. Not only did his fingers pass through the surface, he overbalanced and fell into it. The result was like a peculiar tortoise…a box with a man's head, arms and legs sticking out.

He picked himself up and wobbled unsteadily.

"Right." He straightened his hat. "New plan." He found himself an open space in the hold. "I have come to the conclusion that none of this exists so I'm going to sit down -." He sat down and crossed his legs. "And ignore you until you go away."

His eyes closed in his meditative state.

It was my turn to smirk. If I was going insane and imagining this scene, it was certainly an interesting way to go about it.

"I'm not going anywhere," I chuckled. "You're the one out of place."

Without opening his eyes, the pirate turned his head to one side and said, "Did you say something, Mr Gibbs?"

I marched – well, bounced due to the sackcloth, over and crouched next to him.

"Who are you?" I wondered. "Why are you here?"

He stuck his fingers in his ears and made an irritating noise with his tongue.

"Fine," I sighed. "Let's say I'm not here. Where are you and what were you doing last?"

He stopped making the childish noise. His brow furrowed.

"I don't -."

His eyes snapped open and he disappeared.

"I've gone mad," I spoke to the empty room.

I glanced over to where the rum bottle had struck the boards. Not a drop and not a shard remained.

I heard the stairs creak. Getting to my feet I tensed, worried that whoever was coming down would be an unfriendly face. They stopped out of the shadows.

"You're awake, Millie?" said Bootstrap.

My throat felt parched.

"I was woken up, I…" I trailed off.

He 'hmm'ed passively.

"I'm so sorry sir," I mumbled as he sat upon one of the crates – the same one the pirate had fallen through in fact. "Those lashes, they were for me. I should have taken them."

"That's not the way it works," he answered, if a little coldly.

I bit my lip.

"I'll not mention you again should I try to ask for anything else."

"For that I'm grateful. I said I'd look after ye, but – though it pains me to say this – if ye get in troubles beyond the necessities for livin', you'll be on your own."

I gave a solemn nod, feeling as though my insides were being scooped out with a ladle. I had caused another's suffering and that hurt me more than the thought of the Boatswain's whip. How much this ship would change me I could not have known.

"So," said Turner. "What was it that disturbed your sleep?"

I blinked away a few tears and shrugged.

"I thought I heard something. Then I thought I saw something, but it wasn't there."

"This place can do that to a person. Don't worry too much or it'll only get worse. Might be gettin' a fever. We'll cook you up somethin' small, I'll watch out for the Bo'sun, and best thing you can do is get some more sleep."

I was fully fed up of sleeping but thought it better to agree with the man that had gone through more than enough for me. I wondered why, not simply the small reason that Jones had mentioned of his son, and made a mental note to question him on his kindness someday.

I curled up near the stove as he tossed some rather unappetising mollusc about the pot. Dozily, I tried to imagine it smothered in fresh butter and herbs when it was time for me to eat.

I fazed out once again.


End file.
